


Habits

by thanksforthecrumb



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drug Use, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 21:37:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3149327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thanksforthecrumb/pseuds/thanksforthecrumb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At this point, she can’t even tell which is the habit: the man, the drink, or the drug.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Habits

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic haphazardly, rearranged it several times, and didn’t really edit for coherency. The time that passes between paragraphs can vary from weeks to days to hours. It might be a little hard to grasp at first, and the context isn’t all there, and it’s all really vague, and the sentences would make my English teacher scream, but that’s sort of what I was going for. Mary’s really disconnected at this point, so I thought the best way to show that was to make the fic disconnected and have my sentence structure go to shit.
> 
> (Based on "Habits" by Tove Lo, which I obviously do not own.)

Time is something Mary doesn’t understand. It moves too fast in one second and too slow in the next. She can’t remember how long ago this started, this spiral of forgetting. All she knows is that forgetting is easy when you can’t remember who you are. Forgetting is good. Forgetting takes time. And right now, she has an abundance of time. Ever since he—

No. Her head is hurting just thinking about—

_Stop_.

More smoke, more smoke.

She raises the cigarette to her lips and sucks in. As the fog enters her body, her heart, her mind, she forgets.

She forgets his unruly blond hair that grows too quickly and results in her forcing him into a chair so she can hack the ends off in an attempt to make him socially acceptable. She forgets his shining blue eyes, constantly looking at her, constantly widened, constantly awed at the world. She forgets his perpetually wrinkled button downs, with their plaids and daisies and polka dots and paisleys and odd prints. She forgets how his perfectly shaped lips are always curved in a tiny, secret grin, forgets how he can always say something to make her smile, how he’s the best friend in the world. She forgets—

No. This isn’t forgetting. This is the opposite.

She breathes in the smoke, too eager for its release.

Forgetting takes time.

~ ~ ~

She’s running low on the cigarettes when she checks in the morning. At first, all she feels is blind, crippling panic that she won’t have any left and she’ll have to live with the pain forever. But she calms herself by taking one out and lighting it, breathing her antidote in deeply. She’ll call Kenna. She’ll get more. It’ll be okay.

She inhales and marvels at how okay everything is when she holds this little roll of paper between her fingers.

~ ~ ~

Kenna doesn’t ask questions. That’s why they’ve stayed friends for so long. She picks up the phone on the third ring, her voice measured. “Hey, how you doing?”

“Lovely. I’m absolutely wonderful. Oh, hey, yeah, also—I need more weed.”

“What? Mary, you finished that whole bag?”

“Shh, stop being so negative…Can you get it?”

“I—I don’t know, Mary. You sound kind of bad.”

“ _Kenna_. I _need_ this.”

“I know. That’s why I’m worried. Do you want me to come over?”

“Great. Sure. Whatever floats your boat, you know? Also bring me more joints when you do.”

“Mary. Seriously. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m absolutely, really, really, spectacularly fine. Are _you_ okay? You sound stressed.”

“Oh my God. Are you high right now? You’re high. I’m coming over. This needs to stop.”

“No, no. Nothing needs to stop. I’m fine. I’m perfect. I’m beautiful. So are you. We don’t tell each other often enough, you know? But you’re really great, Kenna. I love you s—”

“Mary.”

“ _Kenna_.”

“I can’t believe Francis left this mess for me to clean up. God. Just—stay in your apartment.”

“Francis…Francis…That’s a girl’s name. That’s a fun name. I like that name. What about you? How’d you like Francis as a kid’s name? Maybe I’ll name my kid that, yeah?”

“ _Stay in your apartment_.” 

Kenna hangs up after a moment of hesitation, and Mary stares at her cellphone’s screen, enraptured in the sleek thing. It’s so amazing, really, this phone. Who created phones? Must’ve been a genius, because this phone is really fucking beautiful. To get the corners so round and soft, the touchscreen so perfect and clear. And how can you just press buttons and talk to someone around the world? Whoa. Phones are amazing. Someone should be very proud. Someone’s really smart, to create this phone.

Maybe if she hadn’t been high as a kite, she would’ve put her phone down long enough to wonder what Kenna meant by “this mess.” But Kenna doesn’t ask questions, and Mary is starting to learn more than just marijuana from her friend.

~ ~ ~

When Kenna doesn’t bring a bag of weed but instead brings two large bags of bagels, Mary smiles brightly and thanks her, coaxing her out the door with promises to eat and drink a lot of water, assuring her friend that she’s fine. (And she is. Totally fine. Better than ever, thank you very much.)

She goes out to a bar at night, figures it’s been a while since she’s left her apartment, figures it’s been a while since she got laid. It’s a win-win situation, really. She’s forgotten how much she likes bars, with their dim lights and sticky counters, the clinking of glass on glass, the many delightfully different kinds of drunk people. She’s forgotten how much she likes alcohol. She convinces herself it’s her love of the taste that keeps her ordering drinks all night, and not him. She doesn’t really know how many drinks she’s had as she signals the bartender for another. All she knows is the burn of the liquid down her throat and then the sweeping feeling of relief, of painlessness, of forget.

Forgetting feels good.

~ ~ ~

When she wakes up, the light is too bright. It stabs her eyes and she screws them shut in protest, drawing the covers up over her head. There’s another body in the bed, and her brain groans in protest as she tries to remember what happened last night. She can’t, even after a studious ten minutes of laying in bed quietly, willing her mind to remember.

If this is forgetting, it doesn’t feel good, she thinks grimly as she pushes herself up. She’s rewarded with a lurching stab in her stomach, and as her eyes begin to focus on her surroundings, she realizes: This is not her bed.

These are not her blankets, not her walls, not her pillows, not her apartment. And the man sleeping beside her is not him. She slides out from underneath the comforter, pulls on her T-shirt and jeans, and walks out of the bedroom barefoot. Her head is pounding and the thought that this is probably a terrible, terrible idea, to go out in this state, tickles her mind. She shoves it away. Her mind has had enough tickling.

~ ~ ~

Life settles into an ugly (or beautiful, depending on which version of Mary you ask) pattern. Smoke in the morning, go out at night for drinks and sex and forget. It’s good, all this loose organization is good, Mary thinks as she sucks the end of her cigarette. She’s finally living. Living is fun. It’s too bad she’s missed out on it for so long, but she can’t worry about that now. Too much living to do.

The smoke is beautiful, she thinks, reaching out to trace the wispy tendrils with a finger. They curl around her hand for a moment before disappearing into the air. Where does it go, the smoke? How can something be there and then suddenly _not_? She feels a pang of loss for the fog. It was beautiful, and beautiful things tend to be missed. But then another stream of smoke is floating through the air, and Mary can’t remember what she was mourning over.

She’s fucking great at forgetting.

~ ~ ~

She quits her job before they can fire her. There’s no point in working anymore. She never comes in anyway and when she does, she wanders the store and scares the customers away. In any case, she feels like she’s regained a little control, taken a last desperate swipe at the reins of her life, stepping in front of her boss and saying those words. _I quit_.

It’s not just her job that she wants to quit.

She throws her keys on the kitchen table and sprawls across the protesting wood, staring up at the light fixtures.

_I quit you, Francis. I quit caring. I fucking quit_.

It feels good to quit, like she’s released her burdens, some of which she hadn’t known she still carried. She celebrates her renewed control with a joint, and after a while the lazy, healing fog lulls her into sleep on the kitchen table. 

~ ~ ~

The text comes at seven eighteen, when she’s sitting on the couch, staring at an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels. It’s her first time drinking alone, and she feels that to open the bottle is to cross a line, one she’s not sure she can return from. But she needs to forget and she needs a release, and Kenna hasn't turned up with any weed, so she turns to whiskey instead.

Her phone buzzes on the coffee table and she sluggishly moves her eyes from the bottle to the phone. She doesn’t reach for it immediately, but when she does she drops it like it’s doused in flames.

  ** _Him_**

****_Are you ok?_

[read 7:18]

 And in two seconds, everything comes crashing back, comes careening into her chest, slams into her face. She gasps for air, for control, for anything that can make her heart work properly.

  ** _Him_**

_Kenna said you've been really distant_

[read 7:19]

  _Are you ok? I feel responsible_

[read 7:19]

_Mary seriously talk to me_

[read 7:20]

_I’m sorry about the way things went_

[read 7:21]

_I want us to be ok_

[read 7:21]

_Do you want me to come over? I want to make sure you’re ok_

[read 7:22]

_Mary answer me PLEASE_

[read 7:23]

_I’m coming over in 10_

[read 7:24]

 And that’s the last thing she wants, for him to come over and simply _be._ To simply be him; wrinkled and worried and flustered and concerned and certain that somehow everything is his fault and wanting to make it all better, wanting to make things “ok.” It hurts that he still cares. It hurts that he’s still the same thoughtful person. It hurts that he feels responsible for her. It hurts that so little has changed about him, as if her being with him hasn’t effected him at all.

Forgetting hurts.

But remembering is far worse, so she taps out an answer with shaking hands. _No_. [read 7:25]

 Her eyes settle on the glass bottle sitting on the table. She opens it without hesitating, throws her phone onto the couch, gets up for a cup. She has shot glasses in the top cabinet. She takes out a coffee mug instead.

**_Him_ **

_Are you going to be ok?_

[delivered]

* * *

 

 “This— _us_ —it’s just not working.” He’d said it in a tired voice, like he’d thought it a long time ago but was only just understanding now, was only just speaking up now. And he was. Mary had thought he’d been happy. She hadn’t noticed anything different. He was the same smiling, beautiful Francis. Her Francis, she’d thought stubbornly, he was still _her_ Francis. And she intended to keep him that way. Well, she’d intended for a lot of things, but this— _breaking up_ —was not one of them.

“I don’t—I don’t understand,” she’d finally said, sitting on the bed.

He sat next to her, patting the mattress awkwardly.

There it was. He didn’t even have to say anything. There was the difference. The awkwardness, the air of uneasiness that had never been there before. Francis had a bumbling way of going through life, but he’d never been awkward around her. That was why they worked so well together—they bounced off each other’s moods, fed off each other’s personality. They were free together, easy. Loving him was natural and she’d thought he’d felt the same way about her.

It’d been a while before he spoke again, sucking in a breath and staring at the ground. “I’m just. I’m just so sick of the lies. I really—I’m so tired.”

“I don’t…Francis. I’m sorry. I am. I apologized and—” Something had started to spiral in her chest, spinning and growing and making her speak louder, faster. It was making her nervous— _he_ was making her nervous—and it was obvious she was having the same effect on him. “I’m sorry. I really, really am. But I—”

He brought his hands up to rub his eyes, which had a faint, foreign shadow underneath them. “Honestly, Mary, I can’t take this anymore. I just…I really can’t _do_ this anymore.”

“Do _this_? Us? You mean us.”

“I’m sorry, too. But I never know what’s real with us and I can’t even trust you anymore. Remember? We used to trust each other.”

“We still do. I trust you.”

“You don’t. That’s just another lie.”

She leaned forward abruptly, resting a hand on his arm. “I _do_. I—”

“Will you just _stop_?” He moved out from under her touch. There was the tiredness in his voice again. And, this time, she could see it in his eyes, which had always been so alive, so young. When had he become so tired? Was it her? Was she his exhaustion? “I just—I want _us_ to stop. I’ll give you the truth, if you won’t: I don’t want this anymore. And I’m sorry. I am. But I can’t handle this. I really can’t.”

The panic didn’t stop building in her chest, and it felt like she was half a second away from being consumed. Her voice was shaky and even she hated the needy way it sounded. “We’re good together. I love you, you know that. And I want to spend the r—”

“Please, Mary, _please_ don’t say anything like that right now, okay? I—I think we should—”

The feeling worked its way up from her stomach to her throat, shoving itself along. “Francis. Don’t. Don’t say that. I’m not fucking around. Don’t say it, I swear to God, don’t say those fucking words. Please. Don’t. Just don’t. I can’t—I don’t want to hear it.”

He hesitated, and for a moment her eyes locked on his perfectly clear gaze. His eyes flickered as he watched her, and there was an apology written somewhere deep in them. But there was also a firmness. He was going through with this. He was going to break up with her. He was going to end it. “I think we should see other people.”

She’d been expecting it. And still, it was like the wind had been knocked out of her body. She sat on the bed, chest aching, trying to breathe. She guessed she must’ve been somehow, because that airless feeling stayed with her for days. Her body had gone on autopilot, she supposed. A way to survive without living.

“I’m sorry,” he said, getting up from the bed. “I’m sorry.” He looked back as he walked out, but he didn’t look at her.

It was stupid and clichéd and ridiculous—but it was true. He was her life. And suddenly he wasn’t there.

* * *

 

Kenna eventually caves, showing up at Mary’s door with a Ziploc of cigarettes and a stern warning to slow down on the smoking. Mary tries to seem nonchalant, but the truth is that seeing the bag of weed pushes color back into her life. She hadn’t allowed herself to think of what would happen if Kenna hadn’t come through, hadn’t let go of the bottle long enough for it to register. But the truth is, she’d be lost without her pot. Well. Even more lost.

She takes the bag, smiles gratefully, thanks her friend, and shuts the door. She walks back into the kitchen, plopping the bag down on the counter, and takes a joint out. She lights it carefully and watches the flame of the lighter as she brings the cigarette to her lips. Fire is amazing. So bright and beautiful. So dangerous. (She can think of something else just as beautiful, just as dangerous.)

She patters around the apartment, opens the cupboards, looks for something to eat. Instead of the Twinkies she’d hoped to find, her eyes rest on a bottle of Jack Daniels. She shrugs and smiles faintly, pulling it out. It’s empty, she realizes, swirling it around and marveling at the way the kitchen light spins off the glass. She puts it by the foot of the trash, where it clinks noisily against all the other empty whiskey bottles. It’s a symphony of glass, but she doesn’t notice. She’s too hungry (too high), too happy (too far gone).

She puts on music and sings loudly without really knowing the tune, spinning around the apartment, eyes closed. Music (like drugs and drink) is great medicine.

~ ~ ~

The problem with using weed to medicate yourself is that it does nothing to help dreams. She wakes up in the still of the early morning more than she can count on her hands. Wakes up shaking, tear tracks drying on her cheeks, breathing hard and mind scattered.

She forgets her nightmares as soon as she blinks open her eyes.

She can’t tell if she should be grateful. She knows they’re about him. And while she knows seeing him—even in a dream—would crush her, _not_ seeing him is having the same effect. It’s beyond want. She needs him. She hates herself for forgetting the dreams, the one thing she wants (needs) to remember.

And then sometimes, when it’s too much, when she can just remember the wisp of a dream, can just barely remember the smile he gave her once upon a nightmare, she drags herself out of bed, staggers into the kitchen and retrieves a blunt and lighter. She flicks the lighter, watches the flame for a minute, tries to forget what she’s forgotten.

But forgetting takes time and a lot more control than Mary has ever dreamed of.

~ ~ ~

She tosses the jumbo Ziploc bag filled with joints into the sink and turns the water on, flicking the garbage disposal switch angrily. As she watches the white rolls soak and then get torn to shreds in the sink, she feels more trapped than ever. She screams through the roars of the disposal; screams at herself for being so stupid, for letting everything control her. She screams at him for going away and taking her heart with him, at the world for allowing it to happen, and at herself again because she fucks everything— _every single fucking thing_ —up. She screams as she realizes what she’s done and screams louder at how it’s affecting her because it _shouldn’t_ be affecting her. Then she’s on the floor, head in hands, clawing at her hair, cheeks wet and puffed with tears, and she’s wasting water and energy because the sink is still running and the garbage disposal is still growling and she needs her drug more than ever now and she’s ruined all that’s left. She’s ruined everything that ever fucking was.

She braces her back against the dishwasher, puts her head between her knees. She’s fucked everything up. Everything. She needs to get up and turn the garbage disposal off; it’s giving her a headache and driving up her energy bill. But she can’t. Because if she turns it off, she’ll hear her screams and realize how far gone she is, really realize. She’s not ready for reality. She’s not ready to wake up from this nightmare, because however bad it might get in this dream, reality will always be much worse.

She needs to turn the disposal off. She screams louder, and her chest is tight and her throat is patchy with thick saliva and her nose is twitching from all the tears washing down her face. She needs to get up, needs to turn the water off. She squeezes her eyes shut until they hurt and she starts to wonder how much she’s damaging her vision. She needs another cigarette. She needs to stop smoking. She needs to get better. She needs to stop drinking. But she needs to forget, and this is the only way she knows how. 

More than alcohol and drugs, forgetting takes time. And though she knows this, it’s not something she understands. 

~ ~ ~

She finds one of his dirty button downs wedged between a cushion in her couch. It doesn’t register for several blank minutes. She clutches it and stares, eyes zigzagging across the blue and green flower patterns. It’s right there, right at the edge of her mind, why can’t she remember what this shirt—

Oh.

She remembers.

(Forgetting takes time, and while it’s been long, it hasn’t been enough.)

It’s his. It’s his shirt and his smell and his hair littering the shoulders of the button down. It’s his mess that he’s left in her apartment, in her head, her heart. It’s his mess and it’s her problem.

He’s more than just a problem.

He’s a habit. He’s _her_ habit.

She balls the shirt up and throws it across the apartment. Or, tries to. It falls short and hits the floor by her feet, and that’s just so fitting, isn’t it, because she’s having the same trouble getting rid of him, and why is his fucking shirt any different?

It’s on the floor and it’s dirty and rumpled and it’s him, and some more evolved corner of her brain knows it’s bad when she reaches down and picks the thing up, knows it’s even worse when she lifts it to her nose and inhales, because she wants him— _needs_ him—and this is as close as she’ll get, and she’ll take it.

She thinks about burning the shirt, a sort of vengeance for all the pain he’s caused her. But that won’t work, will it, because it’ll only end up hurting her. She could donate it to Goodwill. But there’s a sort of alarm that such a thing would ever be owned by strangers. It’s so clearly _him_. No one else’s. She considers giving it back. No. She won’t. That requires going to his apartment and seeing him and him seeing her and wanting him— _needing_ him—so badly and having to accept his brotherly hug and his fraternal concern as he takes in her bloodshot eyes and sunken cheeks. It’s not the she won’t—it’s that she can’t.

Instead, she carries the shirt into her bedroom and places it gently on the empty pillow next to hers—his pillow, littered with lingering blond hairs because he sheds like a dog. She backs up and stares at it and almost lets herself imagine that life is okay again. She smiles and it feels weird, her cheeks stretching into a grin, but it doesn’t feel bad.

And for the moment, she forgets about forgetting. 


End file.
